"I’ll Wash Them!"
Before I protested, she gathered the pajamas and swept into our adjoining en suite! Trapped at the bedroom door, I listened as water gushed and vigorous scrubbing echoed. The sounds—rushing tap, friction of cloth—pierced the silence. A stranger in my own home, I watched her launder her son’s garments with practiced ease. As if entitled. Meanwhile, his drawers concealed her underwear. Foolish, I witnessed this grotesque performance. Finished, she hung dripping pajamas on our balcony rack.
Exclusive Towel
Drying her hands, she emerged. I stood rigid. Naturally, she plucked David’s pale blue face towel—his designated spot—and wiped her palms. Afterward, she draped the damp towel back precisely. Effortlessly routine. As if done countless times. Passing me for the living room, she left me gaping at that deformed towel. Shared intimacy? Permeating everyday details? My heart sank. Later, while David showered, I reopened his bedside drawer.
Bedside Photo
Chaos: charger cords, an old watch, cold pills, dog-eared car magazines. Frantic searching uncovered a hard plastic edge beneath magazines. A simple frame emerged, holding a faded photo: young mother-in-law, perhaps thirties, floral dress, vintage curls, smiling in a park setting. Preserved carefully. Why stashed in his bedside drawer? Alone. David emerged, towel-draped, dripping. Spotting me with the frame, he stiffened—then forced a smile.
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Before I protested, she gathered the pajamas and swept into our adjoining en suite! Trapped at the bedroom door, I listened as water gushed and vigorous scrubbing echoed. The sounds—rushing tap, friction of cloth—pierced the silence. A stranger in my own home, I watched her launder her son’s garments with practiced ease. As if entitled. Meanwhile, his drawers concealed her underwear. Foolish, I witnessed this grotesque performance. Finished, she hung dripping pajamas on our balcony rack.
Exclusive Towel
Drying her hands, she emerged. I stood rigid. Naturally, she plucked David’s pale blue face towel—his designated spot—and wiped her palms. Afterward, she draped the damp towel back precisely. Effortlessly routine. As if done countless times. Passing me for the living room, she left me gaping at that deformed towel. Shared intimacy? Permeating everyday details? My heart sank. Later, while David showered, I reopened his bedside drawer.
Bedside Photo
Chaos: charger cords, an old watch, cold pills, dog-eared car magazines. Frantic searching uncovered a hard plastic edge beneath magazines. A simple frame emerged, holding a faded photo: young mother-in-law, perhaps thirties, floral dress, vintage curls, smiling in a park setting. Preserved carefully. Why stashed in his bedside drawer? Alone. David emerged, towel-draped, dripping. Spotting me with the frame, he stiffened—then forced a smile.
NEXT >>
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